Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

James closed his hand over the letter, the paper crumpling in his fist. “Yes,” he said. “She wants to see me at Curzon Street. Immediately.”


He waited for Jesse to say something about curfew, or about how James ought to remain at the Institute with his sister and parents, or about the danger that lurked in the dark streets of London.

But Jesse said none of those things. “Well, then,” he said, and stepped aside. “You had better go—hadn’t you?”



* * *



Lucie had to knock on Jesse’s door several times before he opened it. When he did, it was apparent he’d fallen asleep in his clothes: he was barefoot, his shirt wrinkled, his hair an untidy mess.

“Lucie.” He leaned wearily against the doorway. “Not that I’m not glad to see you. But I assumed your parents would be needing you this evening.”

“I know,” she said. “And they did for a bit, but—” She shrugged. “They went off to bed. I think they rather wanted to be by themselves, at the end of it. Not that they wanted to get rid of me, just that they have their own little world that’s just them, and they retreat into it every now and then. I suppose that’s true for every couple,” she added, finding the thought rather surprising, “even if they are very old and one’s parents.”

Jesse laughed softly and shook his head. “I didn’t think anything could make me laugh tonight, but you do have a particular talent.”

Lucie closed the door behind her. The room was cold; one of the windows was propped slightly open. Jesse’s bed was scattered with papers—his mother’s papers from Chiswick, and his own scrawled notes on how to decode them.

“I cannot help feeling as if somehow this is my fault,” Jesse said. “As if I have brought you bad luck. This information about Belial has gone unknown by the Enclave for so long, and then, the moment I arrive—”

“The two things have nothing to do with each other,” said Lucie. “Your mother didn’t tell the world about my demonic grandfather because of you; she did it because she hates us. She always has. And because Belial decided it was time for it to be known,” she added. “You always say it’s Belial’s bidding she’s doing. Not the other way around.”

“One does wonder,” said Jesse. “What good does it do him, having everyone know your mother’s parentage? Why now?”

Lucie clasped her hands in front of her. She was wearing a very plain, light tea dress, and the cold from the open window was making her shiver. She said, “Jesse. I want—I’d like you to put your arms around me.”

A light flared in his dark green eyes. He looked away quickly. “You know we can’t,” he said. “I suppose—if I put on gloves—”

“I don’t want you to put on gloves,” Lucie said. “I don’t want to fight off what happens when we kiss. Not this time. I want to follow it as far as I can go.”

Jesse looked stunned. “Absolutely not. Lucie, it could be dangerous—”

“I realized something,” she said. “Belial has always focused his attention on James. Pushed him to fall into shadow, forced him to see things he would never have wanted to see, feel what he would never have wanted to feel. I have been protected from Belial for all these years, because my brother stood in the breach.” She took a step forward. Jesse did not move away, though he stood rigid, his hands at his sides. “Now James cannot see Belial. All that effort with the mirror, the danger he undertook—it was to catch a glimpse of my grandfather’s doings. If there is a chance I can catch such a glimpse, I should try. I cannot let my brother shoulder all the risk.”

“I want to say no,” Jesse said roughly. “But if I do—you’ll find some other way to try, won’t you? And I won’t be there to protect you.”

“Let us protect each other,” she said, and put her arms around him. He stiffened but did not pull away. She wrapped her arms around his neck, looking up at him. At a new bruise on his cheek, at his untidy hair. He had never been messy when he was a ghost—he had always been perfectly put-together, not a hair out of place. Not a scratch on his paper-pale skin. She had not imagined he would be so much more beautiful when he was alive, that it would seem the difference between a living rose and one made from porcelain or glass.

His body was warm against hers. She rose up on tiptoe and kissed the bruise on his cheekbone. Lightly, so it wouldn’t hurt, but he made a low noise and his arms came up to wrap around her.

And it was heavenly. He was warm and smelled of soap and Jesse. Wool, ink, winter air. She burrowed into him, kissed the side of his jaw. Slid her bare foot along his. As experiments went, this one was delightful, but—

“Nothing’s happening,” she said, after a moment.

“Speak for yourself,” Jesse muttered.

“I mean it. I don’t feel like I’m about to faint.” She raised her chin. “Maybe we need to be touching a bit more intensely. It could be more than just touching. It could be… desire.” She laid her hand against his cheek; his green eyes flared darkly. “Kiss me.”

She had thought he would object. He didn’t. He closed his eyes before he kissed her, and she felt the harsh intake of his breath. She had feared it would feel like something other than a real kiss, like an experiment or a test. But his lips on hers swept away self-consciousness and thought. He was practiced at kissing her now: he knew what she responded to, where she was sensitive, where to linger and where to press. Her lips parted: her fingers stroked his neck as his tongue stroked the inside of her mouth. It was not just her body, but her mind and soul that were lost in the kiss, lost in Jesse.

And she began to fall.

She clung to the feel of his body against hers as a lighthouse in a storm, something to keep her anchored. Her vision darkened. She seemed to be in two places at once: in the Institute, kissing Jesse, and somewhere between worlds—somewhere where points of light raced around her, swirling like paint on a palette.

The points of light began to resolve themselves. They were not stars, as she had thought, but grains of dark gold sand. They swirled, blown by an invisible wind, half-concealing what stood in front of her.

High walls. Towers that pierced the sky, shimmering like crystal. The demon towers of Alicante? Was she seeing Idris? Gates wrought from silver and iron rose up; they were covered with a strange calligraphy, like Marks rendered in an alien script.

A hand, long and white, reached out. It was not her own hand—it was massive, inhuman, like the hand of a marble statue. It laid itself against the gates, and rough words scored the inside of Lucie’s mind:

Kaal ssha ktar.

A grinding, wrenching sound. Images flashed through her head: an owl, with glowing orange eyes; a sigil, like Belial’s, but with something oddly different about it; the statue of an angel holding a sword, standing above a dying serpent.